


An Average Wednesday Night

by laisserais



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Women, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Introspection, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/laisserais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On an average Wednesday night in Beacon Hills, Allison and Lydia go out for fro-yo and run into a spot of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Average Wednesday Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [knitmeapony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/gifts).



> For knitmeapony at the tw_holidays fest, who wanted femslash, with the badass women of TW relating to each other, and no Sterek.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, chemm80, and to the mods for running such a wonderful fest.

**An Average Wednesday Night**

  


* * *

"Lydia, duck!" 

Lydia hits the ground instantly, twisting back to see Allison releasing her bow, arrow flying through the space where she'd just been standing. It connects with a meaty thunk and a groan, followed by a thump. By the time Lydia stands up again, dusting off her tights, the thing is dead: keeled over in the dirt beneath an oak tree, clutching at the arrow that's gone clean through its heart. 

Cocking her head, Lydia appraises it. "Do you think it'll shift into a person?"

She can feel it when Allison comes up behind her, a shadow of warmth along her back. "God, I hope not," she says. 

They wait for a moment, but nothing happens; the three-eyed, horned thing isn't someone they know. "Well that's new," Lydia says. She turns and Allison is smiling at her. She blinks, caught off guard, before returning the smile. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "What should we do with it?"

Allison looks up, scanning the trees, which are rustling in a cold autumn wind. "I have a shovel in the trunk."

"Of course you do," Lydia says. "This sweater is angora, you know; I'll never get the mud out of it."

Rolling her eyes, Allison tugs on her sleeve. "C'mon, let's get started."

By the time they're done burying the monster, it's late, far later than Lydia had intended to stay out. She's got an AP Physics test tomorrow and she'd intended to review her notes, but she's so exhausted right now she can barely pick her way back to the car, heels catching on hidden branches and sinking into the soft earth under the canopy of firs. She may have to rethink her choice of standard footwear. Going out for fro-yo in Beacon Hills is a perilous proposition; it'd be nice to be able to sprint away from the monsters without risking a sprained ankle. Still, she thinks, it's not fair: why can't they make _cute_ survival gear?

"Want me to drop you home?" Allison's clicking on her seatbelt, adjusting the rearview mirror. She's got a smudge of dirt on her cheekbone that she still hasn't noticed. Lydia thinks it's cute and so hasn't told her about it. 

Allison is the only girl Lydia's ever met who could adjust a mirror and still not notice that she's got dirt on her face. 

"Ugh," she says, plucking at her ruined sweater mournfully. "I can't go home like this. Mind if I clean up at your place?"

"Sure," Allison says. She's got that smile on her face again, the one Lydia doesn't know how to interpret, but she doesn't say anything else, just shifts into drive. 

*

When Lydia comes out of the bathroom, just ahead of a rolling cloud of steam, Allison is sitting on her bed, elbows on her knees, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers and staring into space. She looks like she's deep in thought. Or maybe like she's listening to something Lydia can't hear. 

She's already changed into pajama pants and a clean t-shirt; the smudge on her cheek is gone. Lydia towels her hair and sees that an extra set of pajamas has been laid out for her. 

Allison hasn't looked up once, and Lydia doesn't say anything, just gathers the clothes and heads back into the bathroom to change. Ever since the thing with the nemeton, Allison's been strange. Or no, not strange, maybe, but...distant. Quieter. And Lydia gets that, she definitely understands why, but. She just wishes she could say something, do something, to snap Allison out of it. 

It's a weird feeling, something she's never had to deal with before, but Lydia actually wants to try and distract Allison. Cheer her up. Something. She's never been in this position. Whenever Jackson had been sad, she'd known exactly what to do (somehow Lydia doubts that Allison would appreciate the offer of a blow job), and none of her girlfriends had ever really needed cheering up. Or, if they had, they hadn't come to her. Maybe that's the problem: Lydia's never had a friend quite like Allison, someone who's close enough to affect her, but not close enough to touch. Not like that. 

Anyway, it's new territory, but that doesn't mean Lydia's afraid of trying. She'll figure out a way; she always does. 

Flipping off the bathroom light, she twists her hair into a loose ponytail and goes back out to the room. Allison is still where she'd left her. 

Lydia luxuriates for a moment in the feeling of being warm and clean again. She wiggles and spreads her toes into the thick pile of the carpeting, appreciating the softness of the flannel pajamas she's wearing, even if they're just a little too long. She climbs onto the bed and sits cross-legged, facing Allison. Takes a deep breath, and says, "What are you thinking about?"

Blinking as if she's waking up, Allison looks at her, dropping her hands and mirroring Lydia's posture. "Huh? Oh, nothing. Feel better?"

"Yes, God, why can't the monsters chase us somewhere sensible, like the mall?"

Allison laughs, but it's not a real laugh, more like she knows it's expected of her. "Well, that'd definitely get the attention of the public."

"Yeah," says Lydia. "That thing tonight would have been kind of hard to pass off as a mountain lion."

Allison nods, dimples just peeking out. She hooks her index finger into the leg of her pants and twists.

"Is it me," Lydia says when the silence has gone on too long. "Or are things getting weirder?"

"Oh, they're definitely getting weirder, but Deaton said we should expect that, right?"

"I guess," she says. "You know what would be really weird?"

"Hm?"

"Supernatural beings who invade Beacon Hills and _don't_ want to kill everyone." That gets a real, genuine laugh, one that crinkles around her eyes and deepens her dimples as Allison throws her head back. Lydia flushes with pleasure. "Where are all the three-eyed, horned beasts who have come to do our laundry? How about all the mystical creatures of legend who really, really want to mow my lawn?" Lydia bites her lip against the sheer exuberant joy she feels as Allison lights up. "I mean, they have to be out there, right?"

"Maybe," Allison says, cheeks pink and eyes dancing. "We could look up a spell to call them here."

"Oh God, No!" Lydia says with knee-jerk horror. "No more creatures, no matter how useful."

"Aiden's a useful creature," Allison says, low and teasing. She's got her head tilting down, watching Lydia from the corner of her eye.

"He is," Lydia responds, and refuses to blush. Somewhere along the line, talking about boys with Allison had gotten awkward, and she's not self-deluded enough to pretend she doesn't know why, but even so, she can't shake the anxious flutter every time the subject comes up. She deflects: "But then, so am I."

"How so?" Allison rests her head on a bent knee.

"What with the being able to sense death and all. I don't think I qualify as totally human anymore."

"Really?" Raising her head, Allison knits her brows together, purses her lips. "You think you're not human?"

"I don't know." Lydia shifts, picks at an invisible speck of lint. "I don't feel any different. Well, most of the time I don't."

Allison's nodding. "You know, sometimes I wonder if we're completely human," she says, quiet, and Lydia can hear the anguish in it. She waits as Allison takes a breath, and continues. "The Argents, I mean."

And she's squeezing Allison's hand between hers before she thinks to move. Allison won't look at her, but Lydia can see her eyes getting red as she buries her face in her knees. 

"I don't--" She takes her hand back to wipe it across her eyes. "I don't think I really like my family much."

"Hey," Lydia reaches out, rests her hand on a bony knee, then takes it back as Allison folds in on herself, getting smaller. "Hey, shh, don't say that." 

Huffing a laugh as she blinks away the tears, Allison says, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't say it."

"No, that's not what I meant--" And Lydia is good at a very long list of things, but talking about feelings isn't one of them. She's in way over her depth.

"I keep thinking about my mom, and about Kate, and how, even though they were basically opposites, they both had a-- Such a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong, you know?"

Lydia shifts so she's leaning against the headboard, paralleling Allison, and pulls her in close, until Allison's resting her head on Lydia's shoulder. She rubs her hand soothingly up and down Allison's arm; there's nothing else she can do. 

"But they were both so, so wrong." It's whispered into Lydia's hair, and the last word breaks. Lydia shifts until she can take all of Allison's weight, and wraps her arms around her tight, and rocks them back and forth slowly, and lets Allison cry.

After a long while it's silent, and Allison's breathing has evened out to something deep and steady. When she pulls back, she's got strands of hair stuck to her face, and Lydia brushes them away. She wipes a tear with her thumb, before letting her hand drop. 

Allison looks at her, gives her a stiff, close-mouthed smile and miserable eyes. "Thanks," she says. "Sorry."

"Please, don't be. Do you feel better?" She's tried and failed on more than one occasion to imagine the enormity of what Allison's been through this year. Her own ordeal pales in comparison, and she aches to make it all better, but doesn't have a clue how to even start.

"Yeah." Allison nods, and pulls away, getting up and going into the bathroom. Lydia hears the sink turn on, then back off after a moment. She's cold all along her side where Allison had been. 

When she comes back, Allison is wiping a washcloth across her face. "What does it feel like? When you start sensing death?" 

Lydia thinks about how to frame the feeling in words. It's hard, because she doesn't think there are even words for it. "Well," she says, and sucks in a breath. Allison sits on the edge of the bed beside her. "You know that feeling you get, like, the dread in the pit of your stomach, for no reason at all? Like, you're just brushing your teeth or getting in the car or something, and all of a sudden you flush cold all over and your hands start to itch?"

Allison looks at her blankly. 

"Well, it's kind of like that, only with more...shadows. On the inside. Like I can see into a dark space, full of nothing at all. No sound, no warmth, just a shivering certainty of the absoluteness of death."

The only change in Allison's expression is her mouth, slightly parted. Lydia shrugs. 

"Huh," says Allison."

"I'm starting to learn how to channel it, though. Maybe it'll end up being more useful beforehand one of these days, and we can actually prevent a murder."

"That'd be good," Allison says. "Do you think--" She cuts off and stands up, pacing toward the desk.

"What?"

Shaking her head, Allison turns back. "Do you think Peter made you a banshee? Or do you think you always were, but just never knew?"

She's given that a lot of thought, actually. It's not even hard to talk about it anymore, and the impartial observer in her brain congratulates her for being so well-adjusted. "Peter didn't make me anything," she says, steady and even. "I think the most likely scenario is that I've always been a banshee, but it's been...latent. Like, it's sort of a secondary sex characteristic; it only announces itself later in life."

"You're saying you hit banshee puberty?" Allison says, one eyebrow arched.

Shrugging a shoulder, Lydia responds, "Exactly." 

With a flash of teeth, Allison's smiling again. She crosses her arms over her chest. Something that had been tight behind Lydia's breastbone loosens. "I'd hate to see what the equivalent of acne is gonna be."

Lydia makes a noise like she's affronted (even though she's the farthest thing from it) and says, "I'll have you know that I have flawless skin." She tosses a pillow, which Allison catches easily. 

"Oh, I know," she says, her tone a shade more serious than Lydia'd expected. Her breath catches, but she lets it go.

"The thing I haven't figured out yet is who I've inherited it from. Since she's never brought it up, I'm guessing it's not from my mom's side of the family. And I haven't spoken to my dad in years, so anything's possible."

Allison cocks her head, and too late Lydia realizes she's said too much. "Uh, my birth father, I mean." The bed dips under Allison's weight as she sits down again, and now they're mirroring the poses they'd started out in. Lydia consciously lets go of her knees and sits up straight. "That's my stepdad, the guy you met. Technically."

Allison doesn't press, and that's one of the things Lydia loves about her most. Which is a train of thought that she is not going to pursue. Sighing, she gets up and starts gathering her clothes. "I should probably get going," she says. 

There's a light touch on her hand, and then Allison's holding her wrist loosely. She says, "You can stay if you want. It's so late; it'll be easier in the morning if you sleep here. I'll lend you some clothes."

She does live closer to school than Lydia does. On the other hand, Lydia has seen the inside of the girl's closet, and knows for a fact there isn't anything in there she'd be caught dead in. On the _other_ other hand, she'd have more time to cram for her test if she stayed here. 

Allison is watching her with a guarded look, fingers still braceleting her wrist, and with a flash of insight, she gets that the invitation isn't just about convenience. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, of course." Allison smiles at her and scoots back until she can flip the covers over her legs. "Catch the light, will you?"

Lydia stands there for a second, watching Allison snuggle down into her pillow like it's no big deal. Like they have sleepovers all the time. She clears her throat, pulls the elastic out of her hair, flips it over her shoulder, and turns out the light. 

Turning on her side, she can make out the hills and valleys of Allison's recumbent form in the moonlight. It catches the curve of a cheekbone, and Lydia realizes with a start that Allison's eyes are open. "Good night," she says, like that had been her intent all along.

"Good night. Thanks, again. For. You know."

"Yeah. I mean. I didn't do anything, but you're welcome."

She can hear hair brushing against the pillow when Allison shakes her head. "No, you did. You always do. It's…" There's a deep sigh, and then she continues. "It's nice. When I'm with you, it doesn't feel like I have to be on alert. Or like I have to be gentle. I don't have to be…"

She doesn't finish. Lydia turns to her, and her face is in shadow, but her eye catches the moonlight and shines. "I get it," she says, because she does. She feels the same way. They're comfortable. They don't expect more from each other than the other can give. Which is why Lydia really is content, and isn't going to ask for more. Because that's not how they are. At least, not right now, and that's okay. They're okay. 

Listening to the night sounds, the crickets, the owls, Lydia drifts. She's nearly asleep when she feels Allison's warm, strong fingers curl around her hand where it lay between them. Allison squeezes. Lydia squeezes back. And then she sleeps.


End file.
